“You wrote it. You lived it!” She read the next paragraph: “‘Finally, when the tears came, he was able to release his grip and step back. He tried to wake her, but she lay still and refused to move, even just a little, even just a secret little bit in her fingers or her toes or her eyelids or anything.’”

“Stop reading!”

But Julianne didn’t stop. “‘And no matter how much he shouted for her to stop playing games like that, she didn’t sit up. She didn’t start breathing again. When he shook her, she flopped around like she wasn’t made of anything solid at all, and when he didn’t, she just lay there. So still. So so so disobediently still.’”

“I said stop reading!”

Enough. Take care of this. You can’t trust him.

Movement drew her attention away from Timothy.

A set of headlights appeared on the road he’d driven up. Another car, still in the distance, but coming their direction. This was a relatively isolated spot, and Julianne wondered if maybe it was a cop patrolling the riverfront. That might work to her advantage—or it might not, depending on how she handled things.

Or could it be someone Timothy asked to come and help? You didn’t work alone when you were with Dylan in Detroit. Maybe Timothy isn’t working alone here.

That was something she hadn’t considered.

Timothy took a step forward, and she dropped the book and whipped out her Beretta. “Stay where you are, Timothy.”

He stopped and slowly held his hands out to his sides.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “You’re going to pop the back of your trunk. And then you’re going to hand me the keys.”

“I’m not going—”

“Do it!”

Timothy scratched at his stomach.

“Now!” She cocked the hammer.

++++

Timothy thought and thought hard.

Bugs swarming over him. Nervous nervous nervous. It always got worse always got worse when he was nervous.

He popped the trunk.

She motioned with the gun. “Now get inside.”

You can’t get in there. You can’t let her do this. You have to stop her. You have to kill her.

“No. I won’t do it.”

“Yes.” She came closer. “You will. But you get to decide if you’ll do it with a bullet in your stomach or not.” She took careful aim. “Which do you choose?”

Though still a hundred yards away, the approaching car must have hit a pothole because the lights suddenly tilted up into her eyes. As she winced, Timothy threw his keys at her face. Instinctively, she flinched, and when she did, he lunged at her. The gun went off. He didn’t feel any pain, but adrenaline might have been masking it if he were hit.

You’re shot. You’re shot. You’re shot.

Maybe. Maybe not.